DC BOOK CLUB #series (Ed.)

My wife went out of town for a week and I was under a lot of stress so, in her absence, I attempted to bottom out alone in classic style — all sunk into the couch like an ingrown toenail, clad in the most minimal and blowziest of my pajama and/or pajama-adjacent articles, thumbs atwitch, hovering over the Dominos Pizza app on my phone, and, to the chagrin of my man-bae, AG, with whom I’d forged a blood-pact o’er the very ceremony in which I was about to undertake, I decided to blow three hours of my life and hate-watch Zack Snyder’s Justice League.

So, basically, Superman was my first crush when it came to comics. And He is, in fact, a perfect fit for love when we comics readers take to the pages young, the joy indigenous to human hearts still present within and, as of yet, undeterred. Almost every DC Comics character, hero or villain, seems to align with an unweathered sense of idealism. For me personally, It wouldn’t be until the inky tentacles of teen angst siphoned off the last of that glittering optimism that I would lean toward Marvel and its dramatis personae of freaks and geeks, all lab accidents and military experiments gone all wrong. That evolution of my comics readership occurred because as I turned 13, 14, and 15 years old I felt as though I, too, was gone all wrong.

Now I’m closing in on 40, and I’ve started to get comfortable with who I am, or, let’s be honest, grown equipped with the operational procedures to accept the fact that this is just who I am, and as much as I still wish I could be the hapless victim of a run-in with a radioactive spider or discover some latent mutant power, I’m gonna stay this way. So, as I ripen further only semi-reluctantly into middle-age, the gleaming one-sidedness of the DC Comics denizen — characters I could never be no matter how much gene splicing I underwent — have suddenly become appealing to me again.

c4abe90866b45515adf485fd418d3aba34354cba75d83ec6c39eb83bd72d8229

This subject came up randomly with a pal of mine, and partner-in-geek, RM, and so we together decided to commit to the rediscovery of DC Comics hero by hero, both mythos and canon, reading and discussing our way through must-read essentials.

And so thusly, DC BOOK CLUB was born.

Honestly, it’s a seemingly productive way to hang out in a city that ain’t really retrofitted for such tomfoolery, get high or shoot hoops or eat burgers, and sit around peacocking our mutual geekery, riffing on the inane and unimportant shit that catches side-eye from the wives.

I mean, yo, at least I’M READING, right?

In any case, beginning with the Man of Tomorrow, himself — SUPERMAN — RM and I are in the midst of reading through a list of requisite titles. At the completion of each, we’ll discuss, and I’ll include my personal thoughts here, along with the veritable highlight reel of our collective opinions — where we aligned, where we differed. Then, we’ll move on to the next title. Once we feel like we’ve tackled the bulk of a hero’s most notable installments, we move on to a new character. The intention is, at the very least, I think, to work our way through all core and extended members of the Hall of Justice.

So stay tuned! #whiteboy #geek


NOTEI’ve said it many times before and I’ll say it many times more, the respective cinematic universes of Marvel and DC are what are driving me back to comics, themselves, although not that I ever truly strayed. But I waited most of my life to see my favorite comics characters on screen, and now I regret every ticket stub and every Blu-Ray. The MCU, the tsunami of comics-to-film, top-heavy and oversaturated, has somehow fed and starved a growing audience that has now become desperate for fresh takes like Thor: Ragnarok and, obviously, Black Panther. Then, of course, there’s DC — or to be fair, Warner Bros. — who is like an overconfident upperclassman who bought new shoes but didn’t show up to practice. What a misguided notion that a DCCU could stoke fire on Christopher Nolan’s Dark Knight Trilogy without having to gather any kindling of its own.

It’s an obvious bummer that DCCU is a shit to the bed. But, I have to say, this DC BOOK CLUB is getting me through. –JT


 

SUPERMAN: RED SON by MARK MILLAR

OK, so, when my buddy RM and I decided to embark on mining the rich, anachronistic, mid-thirties-and-past-our-prime-friendly ore of the DC Universe, we wanted to start with what would be a sure thing. You know, like, you gotta set a solid tone straight away, which is why Bell Biv DeVoe is always the first track on any killer mix-tape.

Well, the sure thing, it turned out, was Mark Millar’s DC Elseworld prestige format modern classic, Superman: Red Son.

superman_redson_hardback_cover_by_devilpig

BAM! off the top of the dome, I’m going to tell you geeks that if, for whatever reason, you have not held a copy of this book in your hands and read it — maybe you’re a shut-in or maybe you’re an invalid, but I don’t know your life, man, maybe you hate things that are awesome? I DON’T KNOW — get your shit together and get in your Yaris and drive to the fucking mall and cringe as they swipe your debit card, and don’t forget to validate your parking, and drive back home and sit on your couch and do all this shit right now, Eric. Or Darren, or Chris, or Laura, or whatever the fuck your name is, or give me your goddamn postal address and I will have Amazon heli-drone a copy of it right into your fucking home, or whatever they do now, like, maybe they’ll roll it up and fire it at you out of their Amazon.com cannon!

Oh, and for the sake of you disappointing and shameful lot, I’ll try to make this shit short, and as spoiler-free as possible, btw.

One of the main reasons RM and I chose Superman as the foundation on which to build this book club empire of ours, aside from the fact that, y’know, he’s the real OG and what not, was because we got suddenly keen on the many modern retellings of DC’s Silver and Bronze Age comics, as well as reinterpretations of the many-splintered aspects of Superman’s origin story, specifically. Also, Superman’s been in the vocab anyway, thanks in big part to the release and current run of Geoff Johns’ dope Watchmen/DC remix, Superman: Doomsday Clock.

For all the many above reasons, Superman: Red Son, in my humble opinion was the total imperfectly perfect choice with which we should begin.

In the alternate comic reality of Superman: Red Son, Kal-El’s spaceship crash lands on a Ukranian collective farm in the early part of the 20th Century, obvs instead of Kansas,  USA. Then, in 1953, Superman is revealed to the rest of the world as the Soviet Union’s dominant military asset, at which point America’s trip-wired Cold War panic sets in motion a CIA-sponsored anti-Superman plot, with co-conspirators Agent James Olsen and S.T.A.R. Labs scientist, Lex Luthor, running point. The result of the effort is a US-issued Superman clone,  and when things predictably go south, the consequences give delightfully justified birth to Luthor’s lifelong pursuit of Superman’s undoing.

The storyline presents alternate comic versions of DC favorites Wonder Woman, Batman, Green Lantern, and others, as well as alternate reality version of historical figures like John F. Kennedy and Joseph Stalin. It’s a wondrous and complete reimagining, if not just a touch incoherent in its probability.

What I mean by that last bit is, if the logic of this alternate reality holds water, then Superman is basically a trigger for the existence of most, maybe all, of DC Comics’ cast of dramatis personae.

superman-red-son-movie.png
Look, up in the sky! Holy shit, Carol! It’s a communist!

That criticism is a mere trifle, though, compared with the overall. This comic is the right stuff, Chuck. Epic stakes rooted in the very real era politics of the mid 20th Century, and its particular depiction of Superman as national figurehead, absent of a secret identity, by the way, is as appropriate or clear and well-drawn as any that has ever existed. So much so, that if this Superman is the Superman that such circumstances would produce, then I’d prefer the Soviet Union just have him, because Miller has tapped into all the quintessentials.

More often than not, I find Silver and Bronze Ages comics don’t really line up with my then or current (or forever) sensibilities, and that’s one of the reasons I never really fell in line with DC when I started reading. They have a tendency to be too cornball for my taste, but that is in no way meant to imply that I don’t consider them relevant to the culture-at-large, or to all the many other readers tastes. Like I’ve been saying, it’s become clear to me that I’m a late-in-life covert to the DC, and so I’m still fuzzy on a lot of the mythology — like post-Infinite Crisis universe continuity, for example, as well as the many resultant editorial efforts to reclarify and establish particular storylines as “neo-definitive.” Still, on occasion, despite their newness, I continue to find that even the retconned elements of many storylines run quite antithetical to my liking.

But this is why I found Superman: Red Son to be so imperfectly perfect. This comic manages to capture to maintain the heart, but its eye is cynical. It’s like when Daniel Desario gets down on some D&D with Sam, Bill, and Neil late in series on Freaks & Geeks. Superman: Red Son (and let’s face it, Mark Millar) is the badass dude in the leather jacket who somehow found his way to your table top fantasy role-playing game, and you’re all asking yourselves how we all ended up here.

As a final note, the one-two gut punch of the far-flung future epilogue posits a predestination paradox that will make any geek boner blast off into outer-fucking-space, so get to your shop, or get online, and buy this shit right now. You will not regret. —10/10


 

Advertisements

THE JAWS OF ATTRACTION

As of yesterday, I am officially, and for the first time in my life, unemployed. The Irish bar in Los Angeles which I’ve run for the last three years has closed, and it feels to me, psychically, as though the Universe is perhaps ushering me out of 20 plus years of service in the food and beverage industry unceremoniously, which honestly has me feeling a little like —

IMG_0727

If you got any leads, I’ll be the shish-kabob’d guy sliding out the chewed-up aft of my sloop into the mouth of a giant bloodthirsty homicidal shark.


 

YEAR OF THE BURGER #series — CASSELL’S

The storefrot of Cassell’s Hamburgers in Los Angeles’ Koreatown.CASSELL’S HAMBURGERS 3600 West 6th Street, Los Angeles, CA 90020

So this is the first stop on our list, here, and in my opinion, the list could just stop here. I mean, shit, one grease-drenched, cheese-covered, doublestack meat sammiches from this joint and my Year of the Burger is already off to the artery-clogging start I expected. Admittedly, though, Cassel’s gonna get granted a little bit of a leg-up as such here. I’ll make it no secret that, as self-styled burger connoisseur, I tend to favor simple, diner-style smash steakburgers over the farm-raised gourmet fork-and-knife bourgeurs that have risen up recently to represent the “new era” of burger eatery.

Cassell’s Hamburgers was established in 1948 and now occupies the lower level of the historic Hotel Normandie, where it operates 7am to 11pm daily, and til 2am on Fridays and Saturdays. Cassell’s has a storied legacy in Los Angeles — a city that prides itself on hanging onto establishments unchanged for decades — first as a burger stand and then as a restaurant that dwindled in popularity until it finally closed in 2012. It reopened as part of the neighborhood’s revitalization project and is now on prominent display at this busy corner on the topside of K-Town.

Parking in that neighborhood at night, no matter what day of the week, is a bitch. The epitome of what parking in LA is at its worst — pushing already borderline metro area drivers, circling the block again and again and again until, at the teetering brink of insanity, they wedge the car up on a curb and toss the keys in the gutter. Best bet, IMO, whether they have their shit together or not (because when I went, THEY DID NOT) is to leave your car with the valets of the Hotel Normandie. It’s worth the five dollars so that you don’t road rage so hard you split in two and give up on your own life.

Inside, the diner will be bustling, probably, because, though it’s possessed still of some of its old-world charm, has become another typical 21st Century burn-and-turn. Staff are clipped and direct, but its because they’re busy not because they’re dicks. My partner-in-burger, SM, had already grabbed a table by the window by the time I got there, so we settled in and started the night off with a couple beers and an order of fries.

When it comes to the main event, you have your choice between a A) hamburger or B) cheeseburger or C) some vegetarian bullshit, with further options of patty size, as well as a number of add-ons, such as “sauce.” The burger comes presented on metal cafeteria trays, with tomato, lettuce, onion, and pickle as basic trimmings.  I ordered a cheeseburger, DOUBLE, one-third pound, and I ordered it WELL DONE, and you can all say what you will about me, America, I ain’t embarrassed that I like my meat cooked.

For my money, this burger came exactly how I like them. It was smothered in American cheese, which did not eclipse the taste of the burger, the meat of which maintained the perfect greasy zest that makes diner steakburgers so goddamn good. It came on a traditional Parker House hamburger bun, so, y’know, none of this fancy-ass highfalutin’ brioche crap that’s become so indicative of the “$20 BURGER” phenomenon, that it’s just become a fucking bun. I dressed the burger to my liking with regular ketchup and mustard and some of those pickles. I finished all two-thirds of a pound of beef and cheese with LITTLE TO NO GASTROINTESTINAL INCIDENT.

Our server seemed, at first, a little on the bitter side, but once we made it clear that we were working through Eater LA’s list of LA’s Best Burgers, he blossomed like a flower. It turned out that he wasn’t all about the gig, he is all about burgers. He maintains an Instagram page devoted to a cheeseburger-a-day journey.

Follow @chasing_cheeseburgers, although I have to warn you, he’s “pretty into patty melts right now.”

Partner-in-burger, SM, who’s a Los Angeles native, grew up on Apple Pan, which we’re getting to, so he favors that taste and experience in particular. Cassel’s ended up on the fair end of our “out-of-10” burger rating scale, but nothing special. He didn’t particularly care for the fries, which is a cornerstone for a burger experience for him, and which I admit, were, in this case, a little lackluster. He gave Cassell’s 6/10.

In Cassell’s defense, however, when Al Cassell first opened, he didn’t make fries. In fact, he flat out refused to, and he served homemade potato salad instead. In any case, for me, this was a great burger experience. Although I’m increasingly excited that this was the inaugural outing for my Year of the Burger, it’ll be tough to wade through 20 more hamburgers before I can come back to this boss bitch for round two.  — 9/10


 

YEAR OF THE BURGER #series (Ed.)

When it comes to food, in general, I ain’t shy about the fact that I’m all for the porn of it.

That’s right, I said it. Go ahead, you gluttonous human black holes you: objectify your appetite and your excess, and assemble all the many crime scene photographs of your gut-busting should-know-better conquests of shame and decadence as a front line in your Instagram gallery army. I ain’t particular about that shit. 

All hail.

When it comes to food junkie delicacies and my own predilections, however, I am strictly a pizza man. STRICTLY. Like devout. Like orthodox. Like a self-proclaimed, self-identified, self-certified fucking pizza specialist. Can you dig it? I mean, yo, I think it’s cute-n-all that you wanna have debate over what’s better, NYC slice v. Chitown deep dish pie, but, sorry, pleb, I’ve transcended those petty Buzzfeed-style pop discourses when it comes to pizza. When it comes to pizza, I rap about the gift of Naples as a philosophical fucking concept.

But in an attempt to become better versed in the craft of trash food pleasantries, this year I decide to turn the focus of my obsessions on another behemoth of America’s proverbial “cultural fat kid” — THE BURGER.

Therefore, culling from the 2018 edition of Eater LA’s comprehensive 21 Essential Los Angeles Burgers, I — joined by my partner-in-burger, SM — will eat, notate, and rate each burger on this list compiled in the very commuter limbo traffic-laden GoogleMap hellscape where the item itself was invented — nee NECESSITATED — over the course of a post series entitled: YEAR OF THE BURGER.

https---blueprint-api-production.s3.amazonaws.com-uploads-card-image-635122-0cc0ff70-8122-4536-91ae-fdcbc2b495ef

Bon appetite, motherfuckers. Stay tuned.


*

*

*

*

*

The storefrot of Cassell’s Hamburgers in Los Angeles’ Koreatown.CASSELL’S HAMBURGERS 3600 West 6th Street, Los Angeles, CA 90020

So this is the first stop on our list, here, and in my opinion, the list could just stop here. I mean, shit, one grease-drenched, cheese-covered, doublestack meat sammiches from this joint and my Year of the Burger is already off to the artery-clogging start I expected. Admittedly, though, Cassel’s gonna get granted a little bit of a leg-up as such here. I’ll make it no secret that, as self-styled burger connoisseur, I tend to favor simple, diner-style smash steakburgers over the farm-raised gourmet fork-and-knife bourgeurs that have risen up recently to represent the “new era” of burger eatery.

Cassell’s Hamburgers was established in 1948 and now occupies the lower level of the historic Hotel Normandie, where it operates 7am to 11pm daily, and til 2am on Fridays and Saturdays. Cassell’s has a storied legacy in Los Angeles — a city that prides itself on hanging onto establishments unchanged for decades — first as a burger stand and then as a restaurant that dwindled in popularity until it finally closed in 2012. It reopened as part of the neighborhood’s revitalization project and is now on prominent display at this busy corner on the topside of K-Town.

Parking in that neighborhood at night, no matter what day of the week, is a bitch. The epitome of what parking in LA is at its worst — pushing already borderline metro area drivers, circling the block again and again and again until, at the teetering brink of insanity, they wedge the car up on a curb and toss the keys in the gutter. Best bet, IMO, whether they have their shit together or not (because when I went, THEY DID NOT) is to leave your car with the valets of the Hotel Normandie. It’s worth the five dollars so that you don’t road rage so hard you split in two and give up on your own life.

Inside, the diner will be bustling, probably, because, though it’s possessed still of some of its old-world charm, has become another typical 21st Century burn-and-turn. Staff are clipped and direct, but its because they’re busy not because they’re dicks. My partner-in-burger, SM, had already grabbed a table by the window by the time I got there, so we settled in and started the night off with a couple beers and an order of fries.

When it comes to the main event, you have your choice between a A) hamburger or B) cheeseburger or C) some vegetarian bullshit, with further options of patty size, as well as a number of add-ons, such as “sauce.” The burger comes presented on metal cafeteria trays, with tomato, lettuce, onion, and pickle as basic trimmings.  I ordered a cheeseburger, DOUBLE, one-third pound, and I ordered it WELL DONE, and you can all say what you will about me, America, I ain’t embarrassed that I like my meat cooked.

For my money, this burger came exactly how I like them. It was smothered in American cheese, which did not eclipse the taste of the burger, the meat of which maintained the perfect greasy zest that makes diner steakburgers so goddamn good. It came on a traditional Parker House hamburger bun, so, y’know, none of this fancy-ass highfalutin’ brioche crap that’s become so indicative of the “$20 BURGER” phenomenon, that it’s just become a fucking bun. I dressed the burger to my liking with regular ketchup and mustard and some of those pickles. I finished all two-thirds of a pound of beef and cheese with LITTLE TO NO GASTROINTESTINAL INCIDENT.

Our server seemed, at first, a little on the bitter side, but once we made it clear that we were working through Eater LA’s list of LA’s Best Burgers, he blossomed like a flower. It turned out that he wasn’t all about the gig, he is all about burgers. He maintains an Instagram page devoted to a cheeseburger-a-day journey.

Follow @chasing_cheeseburgers, although I have to warn you, he’s “pretty into patty melts right now.”

Partner-in-burger, SM, who’s a Los Angeles native, grew up on Apple Pan, which we’re getting to, so he favors that taste and experience in particular. Cassel’s ended up on the fair end of our “out-of-10” burger rating scale, but nothing special. He didn’t particularly care for the fries, which is a cornerstone for a burger experience for him, and which I admit, were, in this case, a little lackluster. He gave Cassell’s 6/10.

In Cassell’s defense, however, when Al Cassell first opened, he didn’t make fries. In fact, he flat out refused to, and he served homemade potato salad instead. In any case, for me, this was a great burger experience. Although I’m increasingly excited that this was the inaugural outing for my Year of the Burger, it’ll be tough to wade through 20 more hamburgers before I can come back to this boss bitch for round two.  — 9/10


 

FF0857F5-2B6C-44DD-BAAB-B77741D353C6-47533-00000ACC5243F00FTHE  OINKSTER 2005 Colorado Boulevard, Los Angeles, CA 90041

Here we are. Number two on the list. A little the fatter for wear, but, as it happens, have a spot on the east side, near where I live, which, honestly, gives it points on the upfront with a one-two punch of being A) easy to get to, and B) easy to get home from, when, invariably, I’ll have sufficiently stuffed myself with enough red meat and beer to shame myself into hiding from public view. The sammiches available at this joint are easily categorized as “build-a-burgers,” one-half a metric that partner-in-buger, SM, and I have established for scoring. To me, these are the burgers I tend to prefer — diner-style smashburgers worthy of instant onset cardiac arrest.

As a beginning note, now that two burgers are finally up on the leaderboard: when SM and I first decided to go on this foodie adventure, I thought I’d be throwing up 10/10s willy-nilly, like the Katy Perry on American Idol of foodporn review blogs. Truth be told, I’m enamored with burgers, and I possess no real rubric or acumen to write critically about food, so the resolution was that I was probably just going to love ALL THE BEEF. But, sorry not sorry, discerning tastes are forming, burger babies, and this is now where we start to separate the wheat from the chaff.

Or the ground from the sirloin, if you will.

The Oinkster took up occupancy over ten years ago in the former site of a Jim’s Burgers on Eagle Rock’s Colorado Blvd, where it operates Sunday thru Thursday, 11am to 10pm, with an additional hour of operation on Fridays and Saturdays. The retro signage, the A-frame storefront, the proclaimed menu of “slow fast food,” and its significance in the Los Angeles burger festival scene have made it a metropolitan culinary staple.

Right off the tri-tip, this is what I love about the east side: parking is a fucking cinch. Now, SM had a particularly bullshit week, so we were planning on pounding some beers. Since Eagle Rock is close to Los Feliz, as I was saying before, we just hopped a ten minute Lyft ride from my house. If you’re driving, though, the location has a modest parking lot, but unregulated street parking in this hood won’t set you back but a couple trips around the block.

Inside, The Oinkster is counter ordering, so, depending on what time of day you decide to hit it, you’ll probably encounter a line. Use this time to contemplate the gut-buster-of-a-menu, or an array of well-chosen craft brews on draught. The staff is super-friendly, and help make the whole experience a total no-rush. Get your number, find a seat, and prep your lower GI for the oncoming stress test. Since SM and I are on this kick to knock out every burger joint on Eater’s updated 2018 list of LA’s best, ordering a couple of The Oinkster’s famed house specials, The Royale, was unavoidable.

2017_09_19_oinkster_015.0
Thanks a lot, you sadists at © EaterLA

I mean, look at this motherfucking Satan’s cheat day right here. Because The Oinkster specializes in house-cured pastrami — and do a toight sammich of the ilk — the little piggies apparently couldn’t justify a signature burger without their signature meat, so this unholiest of joinings is thusly both burger and pastrami sandwich at once, and, in case you wanted to put off an annual physical for another couple years, IT’S GOT FUCKING CHILI TOO.

My honest hot-take, though? THE ROYALE IS *NOT MY JAM*. Let me say, I really enjoyed the experience of going to The Oinkster. Like I said, it’s a super chill joint in a throwback spot with a dope staff, and the surrounding hood is popping. Also, the tap beer selection is absolutely ace and the fries are great, but this beast-of-a-burger, The Royale, was just too much. The components of it are prepared to all exceptional standards, but, like, so are the components of a Colt .45 but I don’t want to eat that, either. No, this burger is like a Real Housewives marathon. It’s like more than one Domino’s Pizza coupon code on a single order. It’s me trying to fit in with my 7th grade flag football team.

JUST. TOO. MUCH.

My distinct burger fascination notwithstanding, currently holding the majority stokehold in my ambition for 2018, I’ve always loved burgers. Who doesn’t love burgers? Burgers are so wantable, even vegans got scientists up in a lab trying to suss out how to make a burger they can eat. But, man, I just feel bad for The Royale. It’s trying so hard. I just want to say, “Be a burger,” and then hug it and hug it and hug it until we go full Good Will Hunting, and it’s like, I’M OK YOU’RE OK WE’RE OK LET’S EAT.

Partner-in-burger, SM, was also not a fan of The Royale, but, like I said, he’d had a tough week, so maybe his tastebuds were informed by mood. In any case, I think The Royale ends up on the leaner side of both our “out-of-10” rating scales, which is surprising for a dish that serves up with so much fucking meat. He gave it 4/10.

The Oinkster is a perfect local joint, theoretically. And as I further explore the unobtrusive fabulousness that is Eagle Rock, I won’t say I’d never wander back through the A-frame for a beer and to wrestle with one of their famed pastrami sandwiches. But also, like Jules in Pulp Fiction, this brush with death has shaken my countenance, so gimme my wallet and I’ll be on my way.  — 6/10


 

HIGH AF ON HEART-SHAPED HERB #blackpanther

Ok, so.

I just wanna blather some more words concerning Black Panther, because, while the cultural bang of this epic and black-dominated comic book movie ain’t gonna diminish any time soon, we do live trapped in a fucking insane 24 hour news cyclone and so, like, who knows what the fuck insane federal crimes could be unearthed tomorrow that could rob this masterpiece of its headline-grabbing glory.

I mean, did Russia just threaten to bomb Florida?

Also, I want a chance to amend my previous post about it. While it was meant to be a capsule review, as my viewing was fresh, it ended up being another diatribe about my belief in the invalidity of white opinion. While I still endorse that belief, and the belief, by and large, that we whites need to just sit in a corner in a dunce hat for the next few generations or so, at some point I will have to reckon with this mindset exclusively as an apparent self-hating white and explain myself to my fellow white people before just randomly firing off at the mouth about it anymore than I already have. Because my thoughts on Black Panther should not be about me or my feelings about the white race. It’s about the rise of multi-cultural stories and characters in film, and the positioning of minority cultural forces that have battled oppression and been back-seated creatively since time immemorial, and so I really feel truly fucking colonial by upending what should’ve been a celebration of this movie and instead making it a vehicle for my own self-immolation.

Sorry.

I’m just, like, really feeling this movie. Like, really. Even at its barest filmic architecture, it hits me all the way in all the feels. All the #geek feels (#geekfeels). For a moment, imagine that you can consider the movie only as narrative and genre. Allow yourself to have the power of the black panther stripped away — its racial ballast, cultural splendor, and triumph of representation. Let it just be a comic book movie about a Marvel Universe character, and, for me, a self-proclaimed comic book #geek and comic book movie connoisseur, THIS COMIC BOOK MOVIE DOES COMIC BOOK MOVIE BEST.

See, I spent all my youthful years idly wishing for my favorite comics characters to appear in their own movies, but I never could’ve anticipated what horrors have been beset upon us, as a movie-going people. Consider…

THIS —

4b85c6dbfa290076af1afe84da12fda4.jpg

And this is just the MCU, motherfuckers, and while, yes, the predicator to the “cinematic universe,” still. Will you look at this shit? I spent my whole life wishing for comic book movies on the reg, but when I take a look at THIS FUCKING ONSLAUGHT … THIS FUCKING BLITZKRIEG … THIS FUCKING TORRENT …

I get nauseous.

THE ANALOGY: dudes, I am like a surfer who lives, breathes, and wants to die, wishing for “the perfect wave.” Then one day, I walk out to the beach as the sun rises over the vast crystalline beauty of the Pacific Ocean, and I see…

THIS —

honolulu-tsunami

Then, for cross-reference, I offer you…

THIS —

trailer.jpg

A TSUNAMI OF SUPERHEROES.

So this common complaint I’ve heard from colleagues and critics about Black Panther — its relative disparateness and insulation from the rest of the MCU — don’t really hold no water for me, for a few of reasons. First, this compartmentalized story of a hero fighting for his homeland with his homeland at stake appeals to me on a purely human level. Second, its radical disconnection from the zigzag of the MCU, I think, allowed it to buoy its greater themes. Three, the movement (for lack of a better term) of Marvel movies are consistently burdened by the references, cameos, cut-scenes, post-credit sequences, and Easter Eggs that are, in my humble opinion, non-contributing and meddlesome. The narrative of Black Panther, however, centered around the occupancy of Wakanda’s throne, provided the filmmakers an opportunity to more fully explore the depth of hero, the villain, and the supporting characters, rather than have to funnel its energy into buttressing the trajectory of the MCU.

Then, it just owes its homage to the influence of all the best shit. This is a film about the kingdom, not the king, and what, in the upheaval, will be gained or lost. That shit’s Shakespearean, y’all. There is also, of course, the allusions and parallels between Black Panther and James Bond, which I subsequently get an enormous #geek boner over. When T’Challa arrives back in Wakanda after the mission to extract Nakia, Shuri tours through her lab as they vibe on her new tech, she the Q to T’Challa’s 007. TO SAY NOTHING of that sick-ass scene at the casino in Korea, which is the best James Bond movie sequence we’ve gotten. Period. Finally, on a purely comic fanboy level, T’Challa a motherfucking super-soldier, yo. How the fuck you gonna knock on that.

Now, then. Drink this heart-shaped herb, and once again feel the power of the black panther course through your veins. And merely as suggestion for future thought —

Be reminded that in 2018 we found ourselves as a modern civilization, receding into an era where prejudice, xenophobia, and racial supremacy reminded us of its rampancy.

Be reminded that this film and the social uprising around it have created a reaction that has snowballed into a movement.

Be reminded that Black Panther is the first and only movie of its kind. So far. — A, obvs


 

WAKANDA WILDSIDE

It came to my attention this morning that I failed to post last Friday. In lieu, I’d like to offer you this photo of what I’m like when I see Michael B. Jordan as Killmonger from Black Panther, which is Michael B. Jordan as Killmonger from Black Panther. #wakandaforever

Screen-Shot-2018-01-08-at-10.27.00-PM-715x296


 

WHITE WRAP

I try to make it clear to anyone not too cool to listen that my favorite musical act of all time is Wu-Tang. They’re my favorite act because they’re the perfect fit for me. They managed to skirt convention enough to make it seem like I have provocative taste. They been at the game long enough so that even those people who don’t know still know. And their mystique just happens to be cheesy enough to make them seem like an absolutely apt fit for a white dude. Check it, guys: I once saw Paul Scheer at a Wu-Tang show. The only thing whiter than me at Wu-Tang is Paul Scheer and me at Wu-Tang.

So what I was trying to do just now was broach the subject of white boys and hip-hop in a post I’m intending to be about white boys and hip-hop, via a manner in which I don’t have to reference the Beastie Boys, because when it comes to white boys and hip-hop, duh. Now the segue I was about to drop on you in order to dive into the rest of my discussion seems half-assed so I’m just gonna cut to the chase.

A couple weeks ago I went with friends to the Egyptian Theater in Hollywood for a screening of Adam Yauch’s now infamous concert film, Awesome; I Fuckin’ Shot That!, in which he gave 50 camcorders to 50 attendees at a Beastie Boys sold out show at Madison Square Gardens in 2004, and the footage was used for the film’s final cut. A side note: I am also a Beastie Boys fan. I didn’t discover them until too late, but I posit that I didn’t discover anything until too late, because I grew up in a real isolated part of the rural midwest and didn’t have older siblings and so as a child developed a personality that was totally reflective of my immediate surroundings and therefore Metallica was a very big deal to me. But then I moved to the city and got a little older and did a bunch of drugs and studied abroad and therefore the Beastie Boys became a very big deal to me.

3701934

This movie, though, I gotta say: during this 2004 Beastie Boys concert that is inside of this Beastie Boys concert movie, them Beastie Boys come off as REAL MUTHFUGGIN WHITE. Just, like, overall. That’s a pejorative, comment, I know, but it is authentic nonetheless. And as you have no doubt noticed, it’s easy fodder these days, nee catharsis, to refer to things as white or not and to do so with no good connotations to how it’s being used.

NOT THAT THERE SHOULD BE BECAUSE FUCK WHITE PEOPLE FUCK US RIGHT BACK TO A POTTERY BARN LABOR DAY SALE

Truth be told, I’m sick of it. Wait. Don’t misunderstand. I’m not sick of white as a loaded term used relative to white people in order classify things that are stiff, boring, uncool, and icecapade-like. No, I’m sick of being white. And upon the viewing of said 2004 Beastie Boys concert film, manifested in me were two white epiphanies. Two simultaneous white epiphanies. 1.) it’s not surprising that three white dudes from a major metropolitan city became successful at a thing they, essentially, misappropriated, but also, 2.) it’s insane that three Jews from Brooklyn can prance around a stage in matching lime green track suits and be taken seriously while they sell out Madison Square Gardens with Doug E. Fresh BECAUSE THAT SHIT IS SO WHITE.

These two conflicting and equally disturbing realizations I had about the Beastie Boys are helping me process feelings about the quality of my own whiteness relative to what I like to call “The Times,” i.e. the Post-Trump Era singularity in which all white dudes will become irrelevant and possibly even warped up into a Phantom Zone forever, a moment that has have been due the inhabitants of the modern world since white dudes first started telling people how the fuck to live their lives. The Times are forming a divide among white dudes as we watch this apparent doomsday approach, and, I believe, are creating a white dude outlier that the Beastie Boys actually, perfectly, represent. See, as the moment of white dudes’ de-existing comes, there are white dudes that will always continue to be part of the problem, and then there are white dudes that will not always continue to be part of the problem but that’s all the white dudes that there are. There aren’t any others. White dudes will never be part of the solution, asitwere, because we are the problem AND A PROBLEM AND A SOLUTION CANNOT FREELY COEXIST ITS LIKE TIMECOP FOR WHITE PEOPLE GET IT. But there is a pocket in the current demographic, I think, populated by white dudes who are down, y’know what I’m saying? I’m talking about white dudes who just wanna weigh injustice by virtue of humanity, who don’t perceive equality as a threat, who want to celebrate other cultures without misappropriating. There are white dudes in that mix who just want everyone and everything to be cool.

Look, watch this Beastie Boys concert movie. Those motherfuckers look insane. But also, they look totally awesome. One moment they look like three dope MCs, the next they look like three kids in dress-up. They’re both a product of whiteness and also, somehow, the greatest departure from it. The film itself is a mystifying showcase for us in The Times for the inherent multitudes that can exist within a given thing, and how we desperately just want to harness that, boil it down to a single nameable thing so then we can know it and probably refute it. Perhaps, then, we are that single thing. One single thing, merely oscillating between perceptions of ourselves and worlds we inhabit, respective environs leaving us susceptible to the mitigating factors that mold us deepest, but, sadly, are never universal, thus creating the disease that we have yet to find a cure for.

Yo, just remember. RZA wasn’t nothing at first but a Kung-Fu movie nerd. #ripmca


 

FALLING ON THE LIGHTSABER

I FORMALLY WITHDRAW ANY RESPONSE, CRITICAL OR OTHERWISE, ON STAR WARS THE LAST JEDI, DUE TO SUSCEPTIBILITY TO SUCH INANE AND PETULANT CRITICISM BY SUCH BABY-ASS GROWN MEN AND IT’S JUST NOT WORTH THE HEADACHE OK But, see, what I’m asking is any of this even worth the headache? Sorry for yelling. But, I mean, really, because already, I feel like I should be talking about something else, anyways, you know, something fresh.

Like All The Money In The World. 

Or Oprah.

Alas, guys, alas, every pop culture idiot savant poindexter dipshit yammering in comment sections and discussion boards across free-market blogospheres, believes, by a measure of neither their own might nor mettle, but rather through a prickly mire of incessant trivial debate among one another, e.g. “What is the correct spelling for the onomatopoeia of Wolverine’s claws?” or “Would Monty Python still be funny if they were American?” or “Fuck Marry Kill! The Baroness or Evil-Lyn?” that we earn the dot-com-given right to publish a our “year in review.”

And for that, I am deeply sorry.

SIDEBAR. Like, WHOA. Sidebaaaar. Can I just get into some shitty shit real quick before I continue? Can I just, like, fucking rap at you all for a second? Can I bitch? I mean, like can I bitch like a fucking BITCH, bitch? Fucking Esquire Magazine, man, those fucking tweed-clad uppity pricks, and look, I mean, yeah man, OK, I know I’m just another nattering nerdnik moron desperate for a respected opinion in a discussion about inane shit, a douchebag with a debit card and a WordPress account, a self-important geek who keeps squandering an MFA in creative writing on go-nowhere bullshit like this, a brunch-dodging couch sprout who spends weekends pontificating online in sweatpants who’s always jealous of the glossy sheen of, like, yet another issue of Esquire featuring yet another celebrity profile of, like, Robert Downey Jr.’s kung-fu sensai’s reiki teacher’s acupuncturist’s assistant’s second-cousin’s tattoo artists’s cosplayer girlfriend’s Internet boyfriend or whatever, written by, like, a porkpie hat-wearing ascot-sporting manbag-having Vasser grad motherfucker who can MATRICULATE RIGHT UP MY BUTTHOLE AS FAR AS I’M CONCERNED! A FUCKING YEAR IN REVIEW. Listen, I read Esquire’s 2017 year in review for film and I DIDN’T KNOW ANY OF THE FILMS! I mean I also don’t wear spats or carry money clips as well as billfolds as well as an attache case or, like, dig experimental jazz or whatever, so I guess it’s MY FAULT! IT’S ME WHO IS SO FUCKING RETARDED CULTURALLY! AND I’M SO SORRY! MANY SHAMEFUL APOLOGIES TO ALL MY WIFE AND FRIENDS AND LOVED ONES! But, like, Jesus, their number one film for 2017 is already a documentary and then there are, like, black-and-white adaptations of obscure Serbian romance novels and English movies that are in French and also subtitled in French and so I GOTTA LEARN FRENCH I GUESS and then Shape of Water? SEX WITH A FISHDUDE? Yo, I know ‘sign language’ for fish dick now! 

But, lucky for you, reading that Esquire write-up made me realize how little-to-nothing our #yearinreview reviews matter. It’s like, if Esquire got it so so so so so so wrong for me, personally, but is still, like, the a gold standard for, like, a dude with shoes that match his belt that match his pocket square that match his exquisitely-waxed mustache, well, shit guys, I’m probably gonna get it all wrong for Esquire, too. So, what I’m saying is, does any of us telling the rest of us what the best movies last year were mean shit about dick about fuckall about anything ever for any reason? Or, I mean, like, is it just a way for us to create a tertiary market in a dimension on the outskirts of the visual and performing arts medium that do not contribute to it in any way? Or is it just a way for us to get a collective toe-hold in trend and where it’s moving for this year so that we can, like, get together in a room with a team and an erasable white board and assemble data, per se, and tighten the curve on this shit and get it right for next year? Or is it just a way to help people who have particular taste in how they prefer culture viewed and assessed get exposure to other things they might also like based on the things that they already like, and to provide a moment of recognition so they feel like the things they like are important because someone of esteem said they liked those same thing because nothing means anything until it’s in print? Right? Yeah. I think that’s it.

For movies of 2017, I liked the one with The Hulk in it.

null
HULK LOVE HULK MOVIE WITH HULK IN MOVIE

Now, this isn’t a resolution or anything, because I have too many this year already, but I am making a soft rule that I hope will become habit. As often as possible, I want to lead with the language of appreciation and not criticism. Like/dislike instead of good/bad. One is for me to say, the other is just not for me to say. The black hole of criticism is for the artist to decide. An audience can be moved or unmoved. Beyond that, an audience member can decide to evolve from appreciation to patronization, at which point it becomes for a market to decide.

A piece of art’s relevancy is maybe the rarest currency of all. Whether or not a thing matters collectively. That estimation, apparently, is for the academics to decide, but, of course, they’re just a bunch of assholes like the rest of us.